Pirates of the Caribbean - The Spanish Prisoner
by ShahbanouScheherazade
Summary: A King's agent imprisoned. A mysterious mission unfinished. Lured by a promise of gold, Hector Barbossa and Jack Sparrow join Nina in a dangerous venture, one whose true goal is hidden in a maze of lies. Will Nina discover the real purpose of their quest? And can she carry out her orders without losing the love of the man who means everything to her? Sequel to the King's Messenger.
1. The Minories

**Disclaimer:** I own no part of the Pirates of the Caribbean. Original characters and plots are owned by me.

A/N: This story is part of the King's Messenger series, and is the sequel to **POTC: Barbossa and the King's Messenger** and **How Many Miles to Babylon?**

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**The Minories**

I was floating languidly through fields of countless stars in the midnight blue ether that envelopes the earth. The centre of each star was a tiny orb of brilliant white, surrounded by an aura of ever-shifting hues. They appeared close enough to touch, but I merely gazed at them contentedly, aware that they were still far beyond my reach.

Directly above me was a constellation I knew from my childhood - Orion the Hunter. Seen from earth, Orion appeared no larger than any other group of stars; but here in the heavens, he was a colossus.

I gazed at Orion, who was holding up his sword to defend himself against the sharp horns of angry Taurus. Sirius, his faithful dog, was rushing to his master's side, but the final outcome will never be known; the stars have frozen Orion forever in this moment of peril.

I drifted onward, like a swimmer in placid waters, but the stars around me began to move and darken, and I was seized with a violent, ominous intuition. I tried to shout a warning, but no sound came from my throat. The Great Dog was barking wildly, and I struggled in the heavy ether, unable to reach Orion.

In the midst of this turmoil, Hector spoke, his voice close at hand, calming me. "Nina," he said distinctly, almost in my ear - and I awoke with a start.

I opened my eyes, expecting to find him lying next to me, but in that instant, of course, I remembered. I was in the port of Amsterdam, miserable and alone.

A royal summons had sent me hastening to London, but the ship, a Dutch merchantman, had sustained damage in a storm and put into port for repairs. For three days, I had been waiting impatiently to board a dispatch boat - a fast Bermuda sloop which would put to sea as soon as possible.

The morning air in my room was frigid. It had blown through the open window all night, carried on the same unseasonable winds that were sweeping the North Sea. The mattress beneath me felt like an ice floe.

I exhaled heavily, and pulled the bedclothes up to my nose. As I lay curled up, craving the shelter of Hector's warm embrace, the barking of Orion's dog continued.

"How can it be so blessed cold in here?" I complained to the empty room. I tested the icy floor with my foot before making my way to the window.

I reached out to pull down the window sash, and saw the source of the barking: a wretched little dog in the street. Just like me, he was lonely and far from home. I took a half-eaten hard roll left over from supper, and tossed it out of the window for him. There was a disapproving cough behind me as someone entered the room.

"You should not feed him, Mistress Bitter, it gives encouragement," said Mrs Geel, looking at me with a long face. The innkeeper's tall, angular wife had come to start the fire.

I turned back to the window just in time for the roll to strike me full in the face. The monkey who had thrown it screamed and scampered up to the inn's roof.

I spat out the crumbs, wiping butter off my nose. "Devil rot you!"

There was a muffled laugh; Mistress Geel was secretly enjoying the spectacle.

"If you mind their pranks," she said, "You might have been happier at another inn. We're not called het Aepjen for nothing." She gave me a pinched look as I threw the roll down once more to the dog in the street.

I was about to remark that het Aepjen implied one aepjen, instead of the scores that infested the inn, but our conversation was interrupted by a timid knock at the door. Wrapping the bed-clothes about my shoulders, I bade whoever it was to enter.

It was Miep, the inn's barmaid. "Beg pardon," she said with a little nod, "You are sailing on a dispatch boat? Captain Gillette is downstairs asking for you."

I dressed hurriedly and greeted him at the foot of the stairs. "Good day, Captain. I do hope you've brought good news."

Captain Gillette was a tall man whose sharp eyes and darkly handsome face bespoke an active intellect. He gave me a confident smile and a brisk nod. "_HMS Guernsey_ sails with the tide in two hours, madam, but I warn you it will be a rough crossing. I had thought perhaps you might care to dine with me this evening, but I fear food will be the last thing you'll want."

In truth, I was so bereft of companionship that I would have dined on deck in the midst of a tempest for the sake of a good conversation. "Rough seas don't trouble me, Captain. A congenial dinner tonight will please me almost as much as the sight of London tomorrow."

I packed my few belongings in less than ten minutes, threw on my cloak (purchased the day before at a Dutch rag fair), and made my way to the harbour. Once aboard, I retired to my small cabin to read, but in a short while my thoughts were drawn back, as I knew they would be, to the same doubts and regrets that had plagued me from the moment the King had ordered me back to London.

It all boiled down to this: I was caught like a hare in a thicket, trapped in the life of a King's Messenger.

Not three weeks earlier, I had been aboard _HMS Royal Oak_, newly married to an infamous pirate who had won my utter devotion, and expecting to return with him to the West Indies. Now we were separated by thousands of miles, and I longed for his touch with every beat of my heart.

_Oh, Hector,_ _what have I done? How could I make such a devil's bargain as this? _The ache in my chest oppressed me.

In London I would be given a clandestine errand by the King; more than that, I did not know. But whether it might be delivering a treaty or perpetrating sabotage, I cared not a louse, as long as I could finish it quickly and rejoin my husband. I sighed and closed my eyes. I felt split in half, with my heart in Hector's keeping, whilst the rest of me remained here, empty and spiritless. I cast my mind about, searching for anything that would serve as a restorative to my low spirits.

The sloop had begun to heel in earnest, and the floor of my cabin tilted to leeward, as the _Guernsey_ bounded over the swells. She seemed to be making good headway, and I decided to venture on deck for a better look at her. I pulled myself to a standing position, and lunged towards the cabin door.

Once on deck, I found that we were sailing at perhaps a forty-degree angle of heel in heavy seas and strong winds. The crew were handling her very well, clearly proud of their vessel and keen to maintain the dispatch service's reputation for speed. Although I have always loved sailing in this sort of turbulent weather, I returned to my cabin after a short time, lest my presence on deck hinder them in their tasks.

That night, supper at Captain Gillette's table was managed with some care, since any unguarded dish or cutlery was liable to take flight as we crossed the wind-whipped North Sea.

"I won't pretend to indifference regarding your presence on what is, after all, a naval vessel," he remarked, after the usual small talk. "I don't suppose you can enlighten me?"

I pretended ignorance. "I am answering the summons which I presented to you, Captain, but I know nothing more of its nature."

"If you were a man, I might suspect you were in the Messenger service," he said, plainly intrigued. "They're the only ones I've ever heard of requiring this sort of accommodation."

His clever guess made me uncomfortable, but I laughed and made light of it. "No one can charge you with a want of imagination, Captain. I'm no more a Messenger than I am a naval officer, although I was once engaged to a fine lieutenant, now sadly deceased." Even as I said these words, I could have bit my tongue off for letting them spill out so carelessly.

"My condolences, madam. What was his name?" Gillette immediately asked. "Perhaps I served with him."

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. I had forgot the strong bond that unites the officers of the Royal Navy, but Captain Gillette was a member of that fraternity, and it would not do to avoid his question.

"James Norrington." I held my breath, praying that the name would be unknown to him.

"James Norrington!" he exclaimed. "Why -"

I interrupted him. "It was many years ago."

"I sailed under Captain Norrington," said Gillette, "And never knew a finer officer. The_ Dauntless_ was his first command. Many of us followed him from that ship to the _Endeavour_."

Then he began to tell me stories of James' service in the West Indies, including his pursuit of Jack Sparrow and his actions in the War Against Piracy. Although I was able to listen without betraying my emotions, his stories brought home to me how many lies would be needed to hide my past, until I began to feel like Peter in the high priest's courtyard.

I expressed my thanks as supper ended. "I am so very grateful to you, Captain, for sharing your reminiscences. Surely you will be serving on a first-rater again, very soon."

This seemed to please him, and we bade each other a friendly good-evening.

Alone in my cabin, I took hold of the fine chain around my neck, and drew a small pendant from under my shirt. There was not enough light to see it, but I knew it by touch - a shark's tooth like the one Hector wore on his ear, caged in gold filigree. I closed my eyes.

Lying in my berth, it came to me that all of the world's oceans were really one, and the same water I was sailing on would find its way to Hector's ship._ The sea unites us, Hector - may it carry my love to you._ I fell asleep. the shark's tooth in my hand.

The next day, rough seas had given way to the smooth waters of the Thames. As we travelled up the river to London, I roamed the deck trying to get my bearings. We were approaching a low cloud of soot, and though we were still miles from the city, the air carried the unmistakable smell of coal, mixed with other odours. There was a deal of traffic on the river, and frequent shouts could be heard from seamen bringing great merchant vessels to port, watermen ferrying passengers, and a host of others who made their living on the river.

London seemed to be growing at a monstrous pace, and its whole aspect was one of bustling commerce. Everywhere there were coaches of people and wagons of merchandise rumbling to and from the warehouses and inns that lined the riverside, whilst scores of new buildings sprouted in every direction, and it seemed that even the little villages lying east of the city were reaching towards the west, eager to clasp hands with this great centre of England. Amid the prodigious mass of new buildings, one could still observe houses of an older sort, with half-timbered walls, projecting upper storeys, and haphazard shingle roofs with gables set at odd angles, which had probably survived the Great Fire of the last century.

As I gazed at these marvellous sights, I heard orders shouted for setting the anchor and Captain Gillette approached me with two of his crew. He was carrying a dispatch case, and I realised we were near the Whitehall Stairs and the Admiralty, where he clearly had business.

We descended to the boat and were rowed to the Stairs, where Captain Gillette gallantly handed me out of the small craft. "And how do you propose to travel all the way to Kensington, Mistress Bitter?" he asked.

He had no sooner spoken than a man in the uniform of a postilion approached us. "Nina Houlton Bitter?" he enquired. I nodded and he waved me in the direction of a post-chaise, to the great confusion of Gillette.

I dashed away towards the post-chaise. "Farewell, Captain Gillette. It would seem I am to be driven to Kensington."

The postilion bundled me into the carriage along with the small sack of my worldly goods. "No proper bags to go on the luggage platform?" he asked disdainfully, and without waiting for an answer, he mounted the drawing horse on the left, and I was off to Kensington Palace.

I drank in the scenery as the majestic palaces and government offices gave way to square after square where the fashionable houses of London society stood proudly. I quickly looked away as we thundered past Tyburn's three-cornered gallows, and then we were flying down the King's Private Road through Hyde Park towards Kensington Palace. I glimpsed the beautiful landscape and graceful tree-lined avenues along which people rode or walked, and then my carriage stopped before the magnificent gilded gates through which could be seen the royal residence.

I stepped out of the post-chaise and gave my fare to the postilion, upon which he drew a small, folded paper from under his coat and handed it to me. Assuming it to be a ticket or receipt of some kind, I stuffed it into the pocket of my breeches, and the post-chaise rattled off quickly, leaving me standing at the gates.

Before I could hand my summons to the gate keeper, he pushed me aside to clear the way for a large carriage to pass through. Instead, the carriage halted and I heard a murmur of conversation and laughter from within it. A young man poked his head out of its window and said to me in a very superior tone, "The tradesman's entrance is that way, wench."

I stood very straight and spoke sharply. "I've not been summoned thousands of miles to be sent to the tradesman's entrance."

He pulled his head back into the carriage, and after a moment, steps were unfolded and the carriage door was opened by a footman. An older man, slender and cat-like, emerged from the carriage and approached me. He was very finely dressed in the latest fashion, with a very neat wig that might have been French, and a complexion whitened by a heavy application of paint and powder. His expression was pleasant and easy in repose, and the curve of his mouth would have lent sweetness to even the most severe visage; but the slight crease between his brows and the sharpness of his brown eyes suggested a guarded and perceptive intellect.

"Give me the summons," said this oddly girlish man, extending long, delicate fingers. I obliged, and he read it over. His eyes flicked towards me once before returning to the document.

"'Bitter', is it?" he asked lightly, handing the document back to me. "Wait here, I shall send someone."

I softened my expression. "Thank you, sir."

My benefactor raised an admonishing finger. "Thank you, Your Lordship," he corrected me. "That is how one addresses the Lord Privy Seal."

My face flushed, but I saw traces of a cynical wit in his eyes.

"I do beg pardon, Your Lordship." But he had already turned his back, and his footman shut him up in the carriage again without ever glancing in my direction.

As the carriage rumbled through the gate, I turned to the gate keeper. "Who was that?"

"Lord Hervey," he replied with a knowing look that I was at a loss to interpret.

I waited for what seemed a long time. At last, having nothing else to divert me, I withdrew the receipt (as I supposed it to be) from my pocket to read it. I was surprised to see nothing but an unfamiliar address scrawled on one side:

_Golden Lion, Goodman's Yard_

A few moments later, I saw none other than Lord Hervey himself strolling towards me with a fashionable and affected gait.

"His Majesty has no taste for company today," he told me with a touch of asperity. "He finds himself in an ill-temper, and will see you when it improves. You may count yourself among the fortunate in that regard."

This was very bad news indeed. I knew from my uncle's experiences that I was expected to hold myself in readiness until summoned again, be it in hours, days or even weeks. I had little money, and no acquaintances or lodgings in London, and now it would seem that I needed all three.

As I stood speechless, Lord Hervey noticed the paper in my hand, and laughed.

"By God, is that a billet-doux you are holding?" he asked, lightly mocking me. "There is more to you than meets the eye, Mistress Bitter. You are not in London half a day, and I perceive you have attracted an admirer."

But in my present humour, I had no stomach for silly banter. "It would seem a poor sort of love letter."

He took the note from my hand without asking and read it. I thought he raised his brows very slightly.

"You do know that they are no longer debtors' sanctuaries, do you not?" he said with a little smile, but he saw that I failed to grasp his jest.

"The liberties of London, of course," he explained. "My, my, you are green enough to plant in his Majesty's gardens."

Then, to my surprise, he beckoned to his carriage and said, "Shall we discover what awaits you at the Golden Lion in Goodman's Yard? I confess I have had my fill of ennui for the present and feel an inclination to pry coming on."

Something in his manner suggested that the King's ill-temper had contributed to Lord Hervey's ennui. In any event, we settled ourselves in his carriage, and set off for the area called, as I later learned, the Minories.

Lord Hervey kept up a most diverting conversation with me as he pointed out houses, streets, pleasure gardens and the like, until at last we turned off of a broad street into Goodman's Yard.

"You will do, Mistress Bitter, you will do," he suddenly remarked. "If you keep your wits about you."

I suspected that he sought to discover my situation by making me think it was already known to him. Therefore, I pretended to misunderstand. "My wit is no match for yours, Your Lordship, but conversing with you has been a delight and a privilege."

He received this with a short laugh. "I see you're no babbling fool," he said as the carriage stopped, "But remember that even the most skilful may want intelligence, and will be generous in return. That is my advice to you."

He smiled as his footman opened the door, and I stepped down next to a little knot of people who stared at the shabbily-clothed girl who had been sharing a carriage with such a finely-dressed, foppish courtier.

As soon as Lord Hervey had departed, I was approached by a lad of ten or so. "I'm to take ye to yer lodgin's," he announced. When I hesitated, he added, "Bitter, right?" I nodded.

He led me out of the Yard, and down a busy street near the Exchange, which suddenly narrowed into an alley where older houses crowded together with dilapidated shops, farriers and a cooperage. He stopped at the door of an establishment whose sign proclaimed, J. - Tailor - Dealer in Piece Goods.

A woman answered the boy's knock and glanced at me. "Are you sure-"

"'Course it's 'er," replied the boy very rudely.

"Then you'd best come in," the woman said to me, as she cuffed the boy about the ear. Then she called up the stairs, "Mr Singleton! She's 'ere!"

I heard footsteps descending the stairs, and a very aged, clean-shaven man dressed like a merchant and wearing a long wig entered the shop and stared at my face for several moments in silence.

"I cannot doubt that you are the niece of Harry Bitter," he said at last. "I see you received my communiqué. Follow me, please," he added, taking a key from his pocket.

So bewildering had my day been that I had quite given up trying to make sense of it. I followed Mr Singleton meekly up the stairs to the second storey, where he unlocked a door and waved me inside. When I entered and looked about me, I had a great shock, for the dusty, abandoned rooms had evidently belonged to my late uncle.

"He used it as a sort of headquarters," said Mr Singleton from behind me. "A bolthole when on the King's errands. You may change it of course, and make whatever use of it you require as a member of the Messenger service. You will find the highest level of discretion here."

I turned to him quickly. "What makes you think I am, or ever could be, a King's Messenger?"

He returned a grandfatherly smile. "There's no cause for alarm Mistress Bitter. You see . . . Edward Teague told me."

This news jolted me even more. "You claim an acquaintance with Edward Teague? I But I have never heard him mention anyone named Singleton."

My benefactor sighed. "I live here under that name to avoid my creditors, I'm afraid," he answered, "but for many years I was a trusted friend of both your uncle and your father." He let that sink in for a moment, then said, "Outside of this house, Mistress Bitter, I am thought to be dead. My true name is Daniel Defoe."

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Next: An old acquaintance re-appears and King George's temper improves.


	2. A Simple Task

**Disclaimer:** I own no part of the Pirates of the Caribbean. Original characters and plots are owned by me.

A/N: This story is part of the King's Messenger series, and is the sequel to **POTC: Barbossa and the King's Messenger** and **How Many Miles to Babylon?**

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**A Simple Task**

It might have been a consequence of the long journey, or I may have still been reeling from all that I had seen in London. Perhaps my unexpected reception at Kensington was still confounding me. Whatever the cause, I could hardly take in the idea of being welcomed to my late uncle's rooms by a neighbour who also happened to be such a well-known author.

"Daniel Defoe!" I could only echo his name stupidly.

Mr Defoe allowed himself a slight smile. "I see you've heard of me."

I quickly recollected myself and tried to salvage the impression I must have made. "I'm honoured to meet you, sir. I never imagined that you knew my family."

"Your uncle would not have risked jeopardising my incognito in any way," he said.

"No, of course not." I managed a weary smile.

Defoe cast a sympathetic eye over my bedraggled appearance. "I shall take my leave of you now, Mistress Bitter. You have travelled far, and courtesy dictates that I abstain from small talk until you are rested." He handed me the door key and stepped into the hallway. "My quarters are just above – please call upon me for any assistance that you need."

"Thank you, sir. Might I borrow a bottle of ink and a quill? I must send a letter at once." The abruptness of my request might have surprised Defoe, but Hector had been uppermost in my mind from the moment I set foot on the Whitehall Stairs.

"You are aware," he said, speaking quietly, "that London is full of spies employed by various patrons. If you are connected with the court or government, they are sure to intercept your letters."

I recalled my uncle's wry jokes regarding the letters he received from London: _You'd think they could learn to open them without tearing everything to shreds, _he would say. But beyond the annoyance, this prying could disclose my precise connection with certain pirates and endanger us all. "What do you suggest?"

Defoe cleared his throat. "No one opens Mr Singleton's letters," he said. "He is a person of no importance. He can address your letters in his own hand, and send them by regular post, undetected." He laid a finger beside his long, thin nose for a moment, then added, "And Mr Singleton collects his correspondence from the Golden Lion, should anyone need to know."

I looked sharply at his face, but saw none of the clever, catlike dissembling that marked Lord Hervey's expressions; Defoe's words conveyed the sincere offer of an honest man. I smiled. "Thank you, sir. You have taken a great weight off my mind."

A short while later, I sat at my uncle's writing table. Hector and I had agreed on what could be allowed in our letters, and I tried to keep to our accord:

_My dear friend,_

_At last I have arrived, but my employer must think lightly of the effort it cost me, since I am now constrained to wait – for how long I know not – until it pleases him to command me._

_Your letters will reach me unmolested if you direct them to Mr Singleton at the Golden Lion, Goodman's Yard, The Little Minories. _

There I paused, quill in hand. I contended with myself for a time, then quickly wrote:

_All the wonders of London are nothing to me without you._

The sudden tightness in my throat made me swallow, and I stopped. One more sentence in this vein, and the floodgates of my emotions would surely burst. With a sigh, I reluctantly closed as Hector had directed:

_Affectionately,_

_Your own friend._

After taking the letter upstairs, I returned to the cluttered rooms below. My tumultuous journey had ended at last, but it was solitude I sought, far more than rest.

I walked about my uncle's front room, where a folded campaign bed I did not know he owned was leaning against one wall. On the other side of the room, a long settle bore impressions from boot heels at one end; I pictured him taking a volume from the five crowded bookshelves above it before stretching out to read.

Naturally, there was no shortage of weapons: I discovered two pistols under the writing table, a small Turkish vein cutter in the curio cabinet, and a cutlass lying upon the mantel of the small fireplace.

The second chamber looked spare and impersonal - a trundle-bed, two small side tables, and an empty chest of drawers. The buffet de corps, on the other hand, was so characteristic of my uncle that it made me smile. It was stuffed with papers, maps, munitions, keys, and boxes. A sheaf of papers was even pinned to one wall with a small, sharp dagger. I sat on the settle and contemplated the rooms.

I hoped that shutting out the world would allow me to pretend that my uncle was still alive and nearby. I stared at the front door, imagining his familiar step outside, and the way he would enter a room with a smile and a story to tell. And so I waited, like everything in these rooms, for a man who would never return.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I recalled his murder. If only I could go back in time to warn him before he set out on that fatal journey home. _Don't ride out on Bodmin Moor where death awaits you. Don't make me miss you for the rest of my life. Don't._ But he was gone forever. I opened my eyes and resumed my aimless wandering through the deserted rooms. Only the sound of my footsteps broke the silence.

Despite the fact that he was my uncle, in some sense I would always regard Harry Bitter as the wise and loving father who brought me up. Yet, here amongst the books he had read, the clothes he had worn and the mementos he had kept, I could also see him as his colleagues and superiors undoubtedly did. All the objects in these rooms were the possessions of a skilled and bold adventurer; a military man who could handle weapons, horses, and daring exploits equally well.

The idea that I could follow this dangerous profession was suddenly preposterous, but I had brought it all on myself.

King George had offered to help me defeat a deadly enemy, on condition that I join the King's Messenger service, and without thinking, I had agreed. Now, as Hector would say, I must lie in my bed the way I made it.

My eyes came to rest upon a large, empty duffel bag in a corner, and I made an effort to focus on practical matters, packing the items from my small rucksack into the sturdier, roomier bag. It swallowed up my pistols, scimitar, books, and badge. Lastly, I added the only proofs of my marriage – the poesy ring inscribed _Guard well my heart_ and Teague's logbook.

I made a list of necessities such as candles, ink and other sundries, and extracted a small, twisted paper from my pocket. Inside were two of the little diamonds given me by the Countess of Yarmouth, to keep me from abject poverty, as she had said. But I already needed to sell them. Once they were gone and the proceeds spent, what I would do?

The night brought me but a few hours' sleep, and the next morning, I was roused by Mrs Hutson rapping at my door. "A post carriage brought this," she said, handing me a note.

When I opened it, it proved to be a scribbled order from the King: I was to present myself at once. I quickly washed, dressed, and then ran up the street to Goodman's Yard, where I found the post-chaise waiting to take me to Kensington Palace as though I were a proper Messenger.

Upon arriving, I was escorted through a maze of passages and up the backstairs – the entrance used for private meetings with His Majesty. As I reached the top, I could hear the King swearing in German accompanied by a sporadic series of thumping noises. The Page smiled to himself, and went in to announce me.

I entered to find King George wigless, red-faced, and out of breath. His wig lay on the floor in a disorderly state, and he gave it a last ill-tempered kick before sitting at his desk.

"One of my agents is on a mission in the Indies, under an alias," he grumbled. "But the imprudent fool has lost his ship and been captured by the Spaniards. They have him in some damned dunghill of a fortress. You are to exchange a Spanish prisoner for my agent. Here is a letter of instruction for you." He shoved a paper across his desk. I accepted it and he sat back, one hand rubbing his chin as he stared at me.

"You will collect the Spaniard from Newgate with this warrant," he said, and threw another paper at me. "Escort him under guard to Cuba, and make the exchange. A simple enough task."

One word had alarmed me: Newgate. _Why would a state prisoner be held in Newgate instead of the Tower?_ "May I beg to know what the Spaniard was charged with, sire?" I hoped that my question would not cause him to kick me about the room like his wig.

"Theft," he replied, his scowl daring me to ask anything more. "You will make the exchange as soon as possible – before my agent's identity is discovered." He paused for so long that it seemed my audience was at an end, but then he revealed the rest of my errand.

"It is not in your instructions," he said, "but after the exchange, you are to help him re-take his ship and lend any and every assistance requested to ensure that he completes his mission."

Then he turned his attention back to his desk, and shooed me away with one hand.

I bowed and backed out of the room, turning only when I reached the door. As I started down the backstairs, I heard him call out, "And see Hervey about the money."

Outside the palace, the autumn sky was overcast, but I was in an exceedingly sweet humour as I walked towards the post-chaise. There was a new lightness in my step and a delicious glow warmed my heart. My spirits rose to the sky: the King's errand required me to go at once to the Indies, where I could rejoin Hector. Everything around me was beautiful.

The post-chaise took me as far as St James' Palace, where Lord Hervey received me in his state apartments in a most ingratiating manner. Our meeting was brief, but not devoid of interest.

"If, despite your help, the King's agent cannot fulfil his mission," he told me, "I will settle your claim for expenses. However, if he succeeds . . ." Lord Hervey paused and leaned on one elbow, putting his hand to his lips. "I think you'll find your expenses will be more than covered by your profit from the gold," he said.

"The gold?" I tried not to stare at his false teeth.

"I don't pretend to know the nature of the King's secret venture," he said with a feline smile, "But one hears things, and what I hear is _gold_. A great deal of it. Masses, in fact. You are to pay yourself out of the venture. And should you come into possession of any interesting facts in your travels, I trust you will remember who first told you of the gold."

"I shall remember," I promised; then my curiosity got the better of me. "By the by, I thought all messengers were paid by the Paymaster–"

"Pelham, you mean," he cut me off. "His Majesty wishes to keep your service a secret; Pelham is the surest route to having it noised about the town." His voice carried unmistakable signs of his animosity towards Pelham, though his face was calm and mask-like.

I was beginning to get a taste of the backstabbing world of the courtiers, and was glad to bid adieu to Lord Hervey. I had no doubt that he would betray anything I confided to him, the instant it could advance his interest.

Leaving Lord Hervey, I walked east, and shortly came to Panton Street, where a goldsmith called George Wickes was said to buy diamonds.

There was a small uproar in front of Mr Wickes' shop.

The goldsmith was arguing with a young man and threatening to have him taken in charge for selling stolen goods. The young man, dressed in a fashion similar to myself, had tried to sell a valuable stone without telling how he had acquired it. Mr Wickes, seeing he was dealing with a person of no great means, refused to buy the stone, and was looking for a thief-taker to seize the would-be seller.

I realised that I could not sell the diamonds here - the clothes I wore would make it likely I should be thought a thief. I drew back from the fracas, but Mr Wickes rounded on me and said, "And you! What's your business here, lad?"

"I was told to meet my employer here." With no time to think, this was the first thing that came to me. "Lord Hervey."

There was silence. Then Mr Wickes looked me up and down, and said, "Lord Hervey, eh? What for?"

His hesitation encouraged me to invent more. "I have a report. If he is not here, I'd be obliged to you, sir, if you can direct me to him."

Mr Wickes clearly had to desire to involve himself in political conniving. "Just up the road there," he said, pointing. "Then turn right and keep walking."

I retraced my steps, and when I reached St James' Palace, I simply kept going until I was in Green Park. With no easy way to sell the diamonds, I walked through the park trying to clear my head. Surely I could arrange some way out of my difficulty.

As I walked along the lovely avenue, I gazed up at the bare branches of the trees, and then down at the fallen autumn leaves on the cold grass. I must have been walking for some time, head down and lost in thought, before I stopped short. I was staring at a pair of blue shoes worn by a passer-by that I had nearly walked into as they proceeded in the opposite direction. We both side-stepped in the same direction. Without lifting my head, I side-stepped the other way, but the blue shoes followed. Then the stranger began to laugh, and I finally looked up, startled. "_You?_"

"I'm afraid so," said Elizabeth Swann. "I shouldn't have, but I saw you walking along with your head down and I couldn't resist." Then she looked anxious. "Did my letter ever reach you?"

"Yes, it did." One could argue that the loneliness of London would have made me glad to see any familiar face at all, but whatever the cause, I no longer felt jealous or intimidated by her. I determined to try to mend fences. "At times, I'm a bit hot-headed. The things I said to you aboard the _Pearl_ . . ."

"I have forgotten it already – it all seems like another life," she assured me.

All at once I noticed that her figure looked quite rounded, and I recalled something Jack had told me. "I've heard congratulations are in order."

"Thank you – yes, I am Mrs Turner now, and happy to leave 'King Swann' in the past," she smiled, but I thought she looked a bit wistful. "I'm staying at my cousin's house – perhaps you'll come back with me?" She gestured towards the road where a very smart coach was waiting.

It was only a short ride to Hanover Square, which had everything to recommend it except trees. New houses were set round a large grassy oval enclosed by by iron railings, which evidently served as a private "park" for the square's residents.

Inside, there were few furnishings, and we had to uncover two chairs in order to settle ourselves for tea. Elizabeth seemed eager that we should be friends, and made me most welcome. She had come to London to settle her father's estate, only to find everything held in Chancery. Like me, she was running short of money as the estate was ground up and picked over by the lawyers.

"I shall sell the coach next week," she remarked. "Beyond that, I have no idea how to pay my passage back to the Indies, or the expenses of my lying in."

I stole a look at her thickening waistline. "At least it looks to be some months away." Then I had an idea. "Perhaps Lord Hervey would help. I nearly asked him what to do about selling some diamonds." Swearing her to strictest confidence, I acquainted her with my own situation, and the reason I had been in Green Park.

"You mustn't trust Lord Hervey," Elizabeth said with alarm. "He's reptilian. And those jade teeth . . ." She shuddered. "Furthermore, he's Walpole's man. He detests the King, and you're the King's messenger, so . . ."

I could see from this that there was no avoiding the very thing I hated most about the court – the relentless self-interest of everyone attached to it. The sooner I was finished with the King's errand, the sooner I would be finished with the court.

Elizabeth had been frowning in thought, but she suddenly thrust out her hand.

"Look – why not let me sell the diamonds for you?" she said. "The Swanns have bought all sorts of things from Wickes – he won't think to ask where I got these. I'll give you a receipt, and you can tell me where to bring the proceeds." She laughed. "Then I can beg alms from you when I run out of money."

I gave her the diamonds and directions to my lodgings, cautioning her to avoid being followed.

"Of course," she said. Then she surveyed my clothes doubtfully. "You didn't wear a gown when you went to Kensington?"

I laughed. "I'm lucky to have boots and a warm cloak! I have no gowns; don't tell me I'm expected to wear one?"

"I know they're torture," she said. "But at court, that sort of protective colouring might be to your advantage. The most incessant, vicious scheming goes on. It doesn't hurt to pass amongst them unremarked. I could find you something of my aunt's. She's in Italy – it won't incommode her in the least."

I shook my head. "I appreciate the gesture, but it isn't necessary. I don't plan to return once I reach the Indies."

"As you like," she replied. "But life can be uncertain." She was gazing at something behind me, but I did not turn to look. I knew what it was – a portrait of her father, Governor Swann.

At the end of my visit, she surprised me with one last question. "What do you hear from Jack?" she enquired, as though it had been on her mind all afternoon.

I gave a short laugh. "The last time I saw Jack, he had pocketed nearly all of my diamonds. I expect he's in the Caribbean by now, pillaging and plundering to his heart's content."

She nodded. "Well," she said, almost to herself, "I owe him a great deal. I've not forgotten."

The next day was Sunday. Defoe customarily attended a Dissenter's church for most of the day, and so it was evening when I called upon him. I told him that I might receive a visit from an old friend who was raising capital for me to replenish my dwindling resources.

"I never expected to be detained here," I said. "And in fact, Mrs Turner is in similar circumstances."

"If you have anything to invest, I might be able to propose a venture," Defoe replied with a sidelong look. "Although it is attended by some degree of risk."

My acquaintance with Mr Defoe was proving to be most fortunate. I sat forward. "Won't you tell me the details and let me decide for myself?"

"I know the captain of a certain ship," he said, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. "He is preparing to take on a cargo of tea. If you or Mrs Turner would care to invest in his venture, you would come in for a share of the profit."

Having spent my youth in Cornwall, I understood him at once. "And the tea is . . . uncustomed?"

"Yes," he admitted. "Paying the excise tax more than doubles the price. A great many people cannot afford tea unless it is smuggled in." He ceased drumming his fingers. "It is the same for many goods – salt, wine, coffee, even bread. If it weren't for the free traders, life would be hard indeed for poorer folk."

I nodded. _And hard for folk like me as well._ "I shall write to Mrs Turner, but I think I can assure you that we will each invest in the venture."

"And I shall act as your banker," he replied. "The ship is the _Lottery_, and the captain's name is Quintus Lambert. I shall need your money within a week if possible."

That evening, I retired in a state of perfect serenity. I felt that I would be able to supply my want of money, and that the King's errand fitted perfectly with my desire for a quick return to the Indies and Hector. I slept soundly that night, untroubled by dreams of Orion and his dog.

I wrote to Elizabeth the next morning, explaining Defoe's proposal. Then I scraped together every last bit of money I could find, and spent several hours locating a ship and booking passage to the Indies for myself and my prisoner.

It was late afternoon when I returned to my rooms. I secured all of the weapons, unfolded the campaign cot, and retrieved a set of manacles from behind the settle. I opened the warrant and blinked as I read my prisoner's name. _What was this?_

_Hermano Sombra_, it read. My prisoner was evidently a Spanish friar. I glanced at the name again, puzzled. _Brother Ghost_? _Sombra_ could mean shadow or ghost, but either would be a very odd name for a friar.

However, since Brother Sombra was being sent back to his native land, he should prove a docile prisoner and not seek to discommode me. I decided to collect him from Newgate that very night, return to my rooms for my duffel bag, and then proceed to the ship that would carry us to the Indies.

It would be a simple task, just as King George had said.

By eight o'clock that night, I was at the entrance to Newgate, warrant in hand. The prison's hellish, deafening din was audible from the street, but when I entered through the gates, the noise rose around me as though all the devils in hell were shouting out at once. I gagged at the overwhelming stink. Acrid fumes of urine and sweat made my eyes water.

I followed the keeper, my arms pinned at my sides to avoid touching the greasy, reeking passage walls. In the darkness, nothing of the floor could be seen, but its peculiar crunch under my boots unnerved me. Was I walking on gravel? Grains of rye?

We went quickly through the women's wards, to a chorus of insulting taunts. From there we passed the men's wards which echoed with whistles and rude threats. I started, as a snarling dog ran past me. "That one's a good ratter," observed the keeper. "Keeps the population down, don' it?"

If I ever found my way home from this particular circle of hell, my first act would be to burn my clothes.

On the far side of the men's ward, we stopped at a row of ten or twelve tiny cells. The keeper smirked. "For the condemned."

He opened a cell, and I looked in.

A tall, not unhandsome man with very black hair and beard was sleeping on a mat on the floor, attired in the black habit of an Augustinian friar. Our approach had not disturbed him – perhaps he had grown accustomed to the constant uproar of Newgate. Even in his habit, one could see that he was an active, able man.

The keeper struck the cell's wall with his cudgel and yelled, "Oi! You! Wake up, ye thievin' bastard!"

Brother Sombra opened his eyes, and the keeper unlocked his shackles. As I fastened my own pair of manacles on him, I explained in hurried Spanish that he would shortly be on his way back to his own country. To my surprise, this news seemed to disturb him.

Then the keeper looked towards the door, and I heard a familiar, boozy voice say, "Sorry – I appear to have made a wrong turn. Where can I find a Lazaro Bolivar Smith - or Smithy?"

I froze, then turned to see none other than Jack Sparrow, swaying unsteadily as he spoke to the keeper. As soon as he saw me, he brightened, flashing a golden grin.

"Hello, darling," he said. "How's married life, eh?"

My jaw dropped. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd gone to Tortuga!"

"I promised t' see off an old friend," he replied, "but he seems to have vanished." He looked at Brother Sombra, puzzled. "An' who might this be?"

Something else was afoot. I didn't think for one moment that Jack Sparrow would enter a prison merely to visit someone. I suspected an escape would soon be underway, and I wanted nothing to do with it. "I'm on the King's errand. I'm to take this man in charge. I have a warrant-"

"Ah! There 'e is!" Jack cut me off. Craning around me, he waved at a man in the midst of the ward. Then, sinking his voice, he leaned close and muttered, "He's to be tried an' hanged tomorrow, savvy?"

As I drew back from Jack's rum-soaked breath, I began to notice an increasing number of people bustling through the ward and passages in all directions, pushing and shoving others out of their way. The atmosphere of the prison began to change, as if becoming charged with a violent energy, and I heard a woman shout, "They're bringin' in the Lambert gang!"

"Celebrities," said Jack with a shrug.

I stepped toward the public ward to get a closer look, and drew a sharp breath. Most of the prisoners I could see had either broken or unlocked their shackles, though they were holding their arms in a way that made this difficult to observe. The keepers were oblivious; either bribed or unfit, I could not say which. My muscles tensed and my heart pounded as understanding dawned. This prison was about to be sacked by a mob.

I turned back to Jack and someone pushed me hard. I banged into the doorway as the noise in the ward became an uproar. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a horde of prisoners pouring in from somewhere, filling every inch of space, yelling, pushing, and fighting. I turned to face them and was instantly thrown back against the granite wall of the passage by the sheer weight of unwashed bodies as everyone pressed to get through the passages at once. The back of my head hit the wall, and my arms were scraped raw as I struggled against the rough stone surface. I turned my eyes to the barreled ceiling, wondering if this would be the last sight I saw on earth. Sweat ran down my neck as I twisted, resisting the tide of people, trying to draw breath. For a moment, I had a glimpse of Jack nearby, but could not even reach out my hand; it was pinned to my side by the pressure of the crowd.

Then Brother Sombra quickly pushed his way past and disappeared into a pulsating wall of rioters.

I tried to push my way after Brother Sombra. I redoubled my struggles, yelling, pushing roughly, returning the blows that fell upon me and jabbing people with my elbows. At last my hand closed about the grip of my pistol.

Jack appeared, pulling me to his side quickly, and pressed his hand on mine so I could not draw my weapon.

"You really don't want to be doin' that here, love." He spoke calmly in my ear. "I'll help you get him."

At that moment, another crushing wave of inmates forced us apart, and I lost sight of Jack. I fought back, clawing my way towards where I thought he might be, but the mob carried me along like a cork in a river. I could hardly fill my lungs amid the press of bodies.

If I fell or was pushed to the ground, it would be the end of me.

I would be trampled to death.

* * *

**Next:** Jack's plans collide with Nina's commission.


	3. Naught But a Humble Friar

**Disclaimer:** I own no part of the Pirates of the Caribbean. Original characters and plots are owned by me.

A/N: This story is part of the King's Messenger series, and is the sequel to **POTC: Barbossa and the King's Messenger** and **How Many Miles to Babylon?**

* * *

**Naught But a Humble Friar**

The roiling mob swept me along, pulling me sideways and scraping my back across the rough wall behind me. Unable to free my arms, I blinked helplessly through the sweat that ran down my face and stung my eyes. My only thought was survival. Any attempt to turn forward in that swaying mass would risk a fatal stumble, and a hundred rough boots and knees would make short work of me.

Balance was impossible. With each lurch forward, the press of people jostled me closer to the floor. I could see how this would end, and fear was followed by a sense of inevitability. My fatigue had a voice, and it was urging me to let go. _You can't keep fighting._ _It's too much._ _Just give in. You're not a King's Messenger. Hector was right – you're only a daft baggage._

His insult, forgotten so long ago, suddenly jolted my pride and anger. I would never bow to that scornful judgement – I would prove him wrong if it took my last breath! Neither the Bitters nor the Teagues had ever produced a daughter who was a daft baggage, and I was damned if I would be the first.

Thrashing and kicking, I managed to stay upright. Close by, a nasty stairwell made a dark hole in the granite, and the surging flow of rioters was dragging me in that direction. I kept close to the wall, gritting my teeth and wrenching anonymous hands out of my hair. The granite wall rubbed across places where my skin was already raw. As I came abreast of the stairs, the pressure of the swelling crowd popped me into the stairwell like a cork from a champagne bottle. Gasping, I tripped and sat down hard on the lower steps.

The stairs were nearly empty. Everyone seemed to be on the ground floor, caught up in the mob. For a moment I remained where I was, elbows propped upon a higher step, until a small stampede of perhaps forty well-shod, stockinged legs rushed down the steps and nearly ran over me as they joined the people below. I jumped to my feet and sprinted up to the next floor.

At the top of the stairs, I stopped and held my breath, listening. I drew my scimitar and held it with both hands as I stepped carefully through the dark wards. But they were evidently not in use, and most cells were locked. At the end of one passage, light spilled through an open door. I came up to it stealthily, trying to stay in the shadows. There was silence. I leaned through the door; the cell was deserted.

Still in the passage, I again felt the peculiar crunch underfoot and glanced down. My stomach heaved. In the light from the cell, I could see what I had been walking on all this time.

"_Crawlers!_" The passage was alive with them. I jumped onto the relatively cleaner floor in the cell, stamping my boots to shake off the lice, shuddering with disgust.

Before surveying the cell, I forced myself to take a few calming breaths.

It was undoubtedly a rich man's cell, reserved for a Lord or merchant who could pay the gaolers for amenities such as fine furniture and windows to let in fresher air. A table was laid for ten or twelve guests, but the chairs had been toppled and victuals discarded, likely by the men who had rushed down the steps.

I discerned a change in the noise of the mob outside; the rioting horde must be moving towards the main entrance. There would be violent attacks up and down the street on that side; it would be safer to try another way out. I stared at the cutlery; small knives were always handy. I collected four, and used a fork to pry a good-sized nail from the floor. My uncle had taught me very well indeed.

I peered through a window and saw a narrow side yard and beyond it, a spiked outer wall twenty feet high. Getting over the wall looked quite arduous, perhaps impossible. As I debated whether to look further, I noticed the faint odour of smoke. Had someone started a fire in the prison? The yard and the wall began to look quite attractive.

I seized the tablecloth, sending dishes flying as I tore it off the table. Then I ran.

A staircase at the far end of Newgate brought me to an outer door. It was locked, and there was almost no light; but lock-picking is not done by sight. Using the nail I had pried up, I worked by sound and touch, and the lock yielded to me.

I crossed the empty yard at a run, and reached the wall. Testing the edges of its granite blocks revealed little crevices where my fingers could grip, but few places for a foothold. The old wooden gates offered nothing, but their iron hinges were more promising – four of them, bolted into the wooden gateposts.

I wedged one of the knives in the crack between the post and the gate, just over the lowest hinge. It stuck fast, and held my weight. I wedged a second knife farther up, as I clung to the wall and the hinge, then hoisted myself higher. Working slowly, I finally reached the top, with fingers torn bloody and muscles burning from the strain.

Perched with a leg on each side of the wall, I tore the tablecloth into two strips which I tied together and secured on one of the wall's palings. I lowered myself down the cloth as far as possible, and then dropped to the street. Weak and out of breath, I propped myself against the wall with one hand.

"Oi!" I turned towards the cry.

Jack was approaching from the main road, accompanied by the friar, who was still shackled and cowering under the hood of his habit.

Relief washed through me and I stumbled towards them. "Oh, Jack - thank God! You've found him!" Then I stopped; my prisoner was much shorter than I recalled. I peered at his face, then yanked off the black hood.

Garbed in the monk's habit, wearing my manacles on his wrists, Lazaro Bolivar "Smith" showed his crooked yellow teeth in a delighted grin.

The blood drained from my face. "You? _You!_ . . . how . . ." But it was quite obvious _how_. I planted myself squarely in front of Jack.

"Where is my prisoner?" I demanded. "Do you know what you've done?"

"He was t' swing tomorrow, love," Jack replied. "So I fixed it. Told 'im I would."

"And what did you tell _me, _Jack? _'I'll help you get him, love',_ wasn't it? The King ordered me - I had a bloody warrant . . ." I broke off, patting my filthy clothes. "Brilliant! I've lost it!"

Jack pulled something from his pocket and jerked a thumb at Lazaro. "Couldn't get 'im out without a warrant, savvy? Here y' go, safe as houses."

He held out the document, but I crossed my arms. "What's the point of it _now_? Do I save it for my next trip to Newgate?"

"Ah, it's not as bad as all that, mouse," he said, coaxing me. "By the by," he went on, throwing an arm across my sore shoulders, "You made quite an impressive escape! They say no one breaks out of Newgate."

"Oh? Evidently they forgot to tell me or Brother Sombra, since we both seem to have managed it." I shrugged off his arm.

Jack held up both hands. "Alright, alright, darlin'. I'll help you find 'im. Fair enough?"

"No! Our ship's already gone! I was to take him to Cuba!" I put my hands over my face for a moment, and exhaled a sigh. He didn't understand; it was time to take him into my confidence.

Composing myself as best I could, I told him everything: my orders, the need to reach Cuba, the exchange, the royal agent's mission, the gold, recovering the lost ship, and how Jack's rescue scheme had brought everything to smash.

My brother listened, frowning. When I finished, he tilted his head back, and studied me with half-closed eyes. "You said . . . a vast amount of gold?"

I stifled an urge to laugh. As always, it came down to profit. "Yes, vast. Staggering, in fact! And I'll share it if you help me. For a start, I need to arrest this friar and take him to Havana."

Jack quickly sealed our accord with a handshake and sent Lazaro off to the _Pearl_, to tell Mr Gibbs that Captain Sparrow would arrive in a few days. I was handed the bundled-up habit.

Jack walked with me as far as the Golden Lion, where he persuaded me to join him for a tot of rum. "To celebrate our venture," he said.

"You'll have to pay for the both of us," I said. "My last sixpence went for passage to the Indies and I can't get it back. I've no money left."

A red-haired young wench brought a bottle and two tankards to our table, and lingered, giving Jack beguiling looks until he shooed her away. Once our tankards were full, he turned to the matter at hand.

"Now . . . Brat . . . _I_ know that _you_ know that I can't take you to Havana. Spain keeps a tight grip on that prize. They'd blow us to pieces before we laid eyes on the harbour." He took a long swallow of rum. "So, you were planning to go . . . where?"

"Someplace near enough that I can slip over to Santo Domingo and board a Spanish ship." I resisted naming the _someplace_, knowing what he would say.

"So it's Tortuga, eh?" The corners of Jack's mouth turning up in a wry smile. "Any plans t' see your dearly beloved? He's sure to stop gallivantin' once you turn up."

I narrowed my eyes and Jack saw the storm brewing in them.

"No worries, darlin'. Tortuga it is," he said quickly. "I've got the _Pearl_ anchored near Brighton." He couldn't hide a grin. "Just like the old days, innit?" I saw him wink past me at the red-haired lass, who was observing him from a distance, swaying her hips.

He promised to meet me the next morning to search for Brother Sombra, and we bade each other good-night. I knew that morning would come late for Jack, after he made a night of it with the comely barmaid, but by noon I still had no word from him.

I grew more and more restless. How could I permit Jack to baulk me in this way? I was doing nothing while my prisoner was getting further from my grasp every minute. I glanced at the bundle Lazaro had given me. Brother Sombra would be dressed like any ordinary Londoner by now, melting into the crowd, never to be seen again. Brother Shadow, indeed.

I tried to think what Captain Harry would have done, and my useless pacing ceased when I arrived at the answer: my uncle would have made it his business to learn everything he could about the friar. I eyed the bundle once more.

I unfolded and shook out the habit. There was nothing more than the habit itself and the rope used to tie it. Oddly, there was no rosary, no cross, nor anything of a popish nature. Had he kept these things from Jack? Then it struck me that the friar had never actually spoken to me. Did he even understand English?

I sat at the writing table and eventually I had a short list of questions before me. At least one could be answered by a certain author whose works included a guide to London.

Defoe welcomed me into his front room, which resembled nothing so much as a disorderly study. It was difficult to avoid staring at his collections of desiccated fruits, carved masks and odd seeds from the farthest corners of the earth.

"Do forgive the interruption," I told Defoe. "I have urgent need of certain information, and I believe you can help me."

He was discreet enough not to pry. "Of course; you have only to ask."

"Are there any popish abbeys or monasteries hereabouts?" His eyes widened and he shook his head, no.

I thought for a moment. "Then, what about other places where a Spanish friar might feel safe from arrest? Churches? Embassies?"

"Quite a number," he replied. "Can you give me anything more?"

I hadn't got much, but there was one more detail. "Not too far from Newgate prison."

He looked up at the ceiling, then pushed out his lower lip as he looked back down at the floor. "Latinate tongues are similar," he said. "The Sardinian embassy lies near Lincolns' Inn Fields." He brightened. "On a property once owned by the Franciscans, in fact. There is supposed to be a Roman chapel behind it." He looked through a few sheaves of papers from which he produced an address and a little sketch.

I breathed a sigh and felt my shoulders relax. Everything began to fit – this was surely my best hope. "I'm so very obliged to you, Mr Defoe," I said, and made for the door.

"Wait!" he cried. "I had forgot something given me by Captain Bitter for safekeeping." He opened a box and removed a small, much damaged, leather-bound volume, which he offered me.

"Please keep it safe for now," I said. "I shall collect it as soon as possible." Then I rushed back to my rooms.

Still no Jack. I checked my duffel once more. I needed answers from Jack, and I vowed to wrest several more answers from the friar, once he was in my custody. This prisoner exchange was nothing like the usual process; nothing was adding up properly.

At midnight I was awakened by Jack's knock at my door. He stepped into the front room as if it were a rolling deck, clutching a bottle of rum in each hand.

"Provisions, love," he informed me. "Very important."

I bit back several remarks that entered my mind, and quickly put my questions to him. Did the friar speak English? Yes, but with a heavy accent. Where were the usual rosary beads and cross? Jack had granted his request to retain them.

"Perhaps he's praying 'e don't get caught," offered Jack.

I armed myself, then handed Jack the address and sketch. "Let's start here."

We left the Minories and made our way down Tower Hill. London wasn't truly sleeping, it was tossing fitfully with the noise and bustle of people working, carousing, whoring, fighting, and engaged in mysterious and secret ventures, as were Jack and I.

The odour of fish grew stronger as we walked along Thames Street. When we reached Billingsgate, fish were already being laid out upon benches to be ready for the morning market.

Jack nudged me and nodded at the fish-jousters – stout, pipe-smoking women shouting back and forth in rough voices amongst the little stalls. "Good with knives, the lot of 'em," he advised me. "Mind yourself."

Putting the fish market behind us, we travelled along Cannon Street past the Lord Mayor's house. At the beginning of Fleet Street stood the grisly Temple Bar. One look, and I lowered my gaze from the spikes that crowned it and the gruesome burdens impaled there.

"Almost there, love," said Jack in his breezy way. A little further and we found ourselves in Lincoln's Inn Fields.

The Sardinian Embassy stood at the end of Portugal Row, and backed on to Duke Street. It was not an imposing edifice by any means; it almost seemed like a private house. We circled around to the back, and discovered the door to the chapel. "Now for it," said Jack.

I gripped my pistol, almost touching the trigger, but did not draw. I was suddenly fearful that we were on a wild goose chase. The law of averages would prevail. The chapel would be empty.

Jack eased the door open and we entered quietly.

A cry, cut off almost instantly, came from the front of the chapel amid groans and the muffled sound of a dull blow. Darting forward, we came upon a friar crouched over the unconscious body of none other than Brother Sombra. The attacker glared, and the flash of a blade caught my eye as he leapt towards us. Jack and I both fired on him, and he dropped to the floor.

"Rum sort of chapel," Jack muttered.

I held out a hand for silence. "Listen." We both strained to hear. "There's no one, anywhere. Don't they have chaplains or something?"

Jack gave a low whistle. "Well, that's unusual." He was looking at the floor where the contents of the friar's pocket had spilled: ten gold cobs. "Robbin' the poor box, I suppose?" He scooped up the coins and glanced at the man's legs. "Nice boots."

They were very fine indeed. With the barrel of my pistol, I lifted the hem of his habit to reveal clothes that no friar would have worn or could afford. I counted the weapons I could see and looked up at Jack. "He's no friar. He's an assassin."

"Look!" Jack cried out, as my prisoner lunged to his feet and ran towards a door to the right of the altar.

I ran after him as though my life depended on it. He would have escaped, but beyond the door was a long flight of steps. As he descended awkwardly, his habit trailed behind him. I lunged at the hem, banging my elbow as I skidded down the steps. I seized it, and brought Brother Sombra down in a heap.

Out of breath, and furious at the trouble he had caused, I made him sit against a wall, my weapon pointed at his nose. "_No te muevas, Hermano, __o te voy a matar__."_ I grinned at his evident alarm, and yelled over my shoulder. "Jack!"

Jack was already on his way down to us, and together we put my shackles on Brother Sombra. We led him back up to the chapel, but stopped at the door.

The chapel was empty. If not for the pool of blood on the floor, I would have thought we had imagined the assassin. I turned to my prisoner and spoke in English. "Who wants to kill you? Apart from me?"

"No one," he replied. What a foolish lie to tell me. But now I knew that he understood my language. I would need to watch my words around him.

I reloaded my pistol as I instructed him. "We have some distance to walk. I advise you against making any effort to escape. If you do, I may let you go."

I looked straight into his eyes, willing him to take my meaning. "And if you go, then you will be all alone when your assassin finds you."

We set out for the Minories, walking almost the entire way in silence with my now-docile prisoner between us. It was just before daybreak when we arrived.

We allowed the prisoner a few hours' rest on the campaign cot. First Jack stood guard and I slept on the settle, then we traded places. Watching my prisoner sleep, I wondered what sort of odd exchange this could be.

Who would exchange a simple friar for a dangerous and privileged royal agent? Why was it being done so secretly, and who had tried to kill him? What was this agent's mission in the Caribbean? I have always hated unanswered questions, and so many were plaguing me that I was quite relieved when Jack's snoring awakened Brother Sombra.

I pulled a chair close to the cot. My uncle would have asked easy questions first, I knew. He would have put this fellow in an agreeable humour before mentioning touchier matters.

I smiled, trying to look as though I meant it, and handed him a tankard of rum. "Good morning. Not exactly a featherbed, but I'll wager you slept better here than at Newgate."

I could not read the expression in his eyes as he downed the rum.

We watched each other steadily. "Are you hungry? I can send to the tavern for food."

"_Gracias, señora. Mil gracias_," he nodded, murmuring into the tankard.

"Does your head hurt? That was quite a blow that fellow gave you. Do you want me to bind it?"

"_No necesito_ _– ah, perdone_: it is not necessary, thank you," he replied.

"Here is your other habit." I placed it on the cot. He regarded it warily but said nothing.

"I know more about you than you think," I said in a conversational tone. "I know you are a thief and a clever man, and you fear being handed to the Spanish authorities. Why don't you tell me your version of events? Why are you in my custody? Who are you?"

"Hermano Sombra, as it says on your warrant—" he began, but I interrupted.

"Yes, I know what's on the warrant." I leaned forward intently, my hands gripping the seat of my chair. "I meant, when you are not posing as a friar." He darted his eyes away from me, but I was not finished.

"Be assured that, as matters now stand, you are going to the Havana and I will hand you over."

I leaned back, tilting my head to the side. "Perhaps King Felipe thinks a Hanoverian agent is worth trading for a humble friar. But I don't think so. And simple friars are not killed in church. Unless you claim to be Saint Thomas À Becket."

My prisoner was showing signs of discomfort, breathing a bit harder and shifting his weight back and forth. It was time to make him confide in me, and I addressed him earnestly. "This may be your only chance to show me you're something other than a thieving, lying miscreant. Show me – and I might decide to help you."

He did not answer right away. He gazed at me with those dark, melancholy eyes, then shrugged. "I was never skilled at lies," he said with a rueful smile. "I took Holy Orders long ago, but . . . " He shook his head. "I am Padre Augustin Maroto."

I stopped him. "Did I understand you to say you're a priest?"

He looked pained. "For some time, my life has taken a different path. But if you insist on turning me over to Spain, who I am will matter very little, save on my headstone."

"Why? Did you steal something from your King?"

His dark eyes flashed indignation. "Do you think a crown makes a man good?" he retorted. "They want something from me, something they have no right to."

My hopes of getting at an answer were dashed just then by a series of knocks upon the door. Jack opened his eyes, and looked at me.

"Probably Mr Singleton," I said. Jack rose and opened the door a crack.

He slammed it shut, spun about and leaned against it with his back, white-faced. "No one there."

More knocks – angry this time. "Jack! Open the door!" Elizabeth's shouts were muted.

"Wrong house - Jack's not here," he answered in a fair imitation of a lady's voice. The door thudded. "Now she's kickin' the bloody thing," he complained. "If you let her in she'll break up the room."

I pushed him aside. "I thought you were friends."

"We are," Jack said darkly. "But it's always trouble when she turns up." I opened the door.

Elizabeth was dressed nearly as roughly as myself. She picked up the bag at her feet and swept into my rooms. "I'm not here to see you, Jack," she told him.

Then she turned to me. "I'm going with you to make your prisoner exchange. I refuse to remain alone in that house. It's being watched by one or more people, and I don't like the look of them."

I glanced at Maroto. "Are they Spaniards?" She shook her head.

"English, as far as I can tell."

Jack cleared his throat. "I regret to tell you that you can't go with Nina, love. We'll be sailing on the _Pearl_ – of which you will recall I am the captain – and two passengers is my limit, not three."

"I won't stay where it isn't safe - I'm expecting a baby!" she said indignantly.

"So technically it's four," Jack replied with a flourish of his arms. "Even worse."

Ignoring him, Elizabeth handed me a heavy leather purse. "That's the money from the diamonds and my investment as well – the amounts are tallied on a receipt in the purse." I seized on my chance to escape.

"I'll just take this up to Mr Singleton," I said, and darted out the door. As I ascended the stairs, I could hear Jack and Elizabeth continuing to argue. If this was merely the beginning of my errand, I could scarcely bring myself to contemplate what else might lie ahead.

* * *

**Next:** En route to the West Indies, Nina begins to sense that Jack may be in danger.


	4. A Glimpse of the Past

**Disclaimer:** I own no part of the Pirates of the Caribbean. Original characters and plots are owned by me.

A/N: This story is part of the King's Messenger series, and is the sequel to **POTC: Barbossa and the King's Messenger** and **How Many Miles to Babylon?**

* * *

**A Glimpse of the Past**

My visit to Defoe concerned mundane matters and would not merit inclusion here, but for one chance meeting.

I knew that Defoe's grown daughters sometimes visited him, and was not surprised when my knock was answered by a young woman who held an infant of some four months in her arms. "Father had a touch of gout this morning," she said. "I'll fetch him for you." She saw the curious looks I gave her young charge, and smiled.

"His name is Samuel. Would you like to hold him?"

This prospect made me nervous and reluctant, but I could not refuse his proud mother's generosity. She handed him to me and left the room to fetch Defoe.

I stood frozen to the spot, gingerly holding a baby for the first time in my life. But as the little one settled his weight peacefully into my arms, something very odd took place.

Because of both my nature and the disasters that overtook my early life, the world has always seemed to me a dark realm of fearful danger, never to be trusted. But as I gazed at Samuel's mild little face, my pessimism began to diminish and give way to a sensation utterly alien to me. It took a moment before I could grasp its name, but at last I knew. It was hope, drawing me to the idea that the world might not turn out so badly after all.

Lost in thought, I only realised Defoe had appeared when he spoke to me from the doorway. "Young Samuel seems to approve of you, Mistress Bitter," he remarked. I looked up, very discomfited, and handed the little one back to his mother.

I gave Defoe all of Elizabeth's money and most of mine, keeping back a small amount for my travelling expenses. He promised to send our share of the profits to The Faithful Bride, and made sure I understood the practical aspects of my messenger orders.

"And do your companions also understand the obligations and trials of such a journey?" he asked.

I glanced at the floor and smiled, thinking of Jack. "One of them does." Then I quickly bade him farewell and hurried back to my rooms to finish my preparations.

In the front room, Jack and Elizabeth were still arguing. "There's no reasoning with her," Jack complained the moment I arrived. I invited Elizabeth out to the hallway and explained the duties that bound me.

"What I'm obliged to do may prove too arduous for an expectant mother," I said. "Once I begin my journey, I am expected to keep the quickest pace possible, hellish weather or no, until I am too exhausted to continue. I'm to guard my prisoner day and night, or pay others to guard him. I shall be a target for robbers and murderers. When I reach my destination, it is my duty to place myself under the orders of the nearest King's representative – I have no notion of what I may be asked to do after that."

"And?" she replied, raising an eyebrow.

"To start with, we will be riding horses tonight, somewhere between ten and sixteen hours, all the way to Brighton without a stop." She looked unimpressed, and I struggled to find more reasons.

"It will be freezing cold, probably stormy. We could be waylaid by highwaymen . . . your horse could fall in the dark . . . and there's . . . paperwork." This last made me feel quite stupid, but I had run short of arguments.

"I can guard your prisoner better than Jack and you know it," she insisted. "Why take him and not me?"

"To begin with, Jack has a ship! And Jack – well, Jack knows all the rules," I replied. "Foreign service messengers always travel with a trusted companion who can act in their stead. My uncle and father worked that way, and Jack and I shall do the same."

She thought a moment, then offered a compelling inducement. "Jack may have the _Pearl_, but I have a coach and four at the Golden Lion. You'll get to the _Pearl _much faster. But you must agree to my going as well."

The prudent choice was to use a coach and she knew it. I sighed. "Very well." At least she had not tried to use her authority as the Pirate King to order me about.

We returned to my rooms where Jack waited, looking hopeful. I shook my head. "You've lost. Elizabeth is coming with us."

I strode past him ignoring his protests. The air was getting colder, and I rummaged through my uncle's belongings to find anything that would ward off the chill. I found a flannel-lined, long-skirted riding coat and a Turkish _shulwar kameez_ or two, which I took down to Mrs Hutson to be cut down to a more reasonable size. In the end, I drew the _shulwars_ on over fleecy stockings and cotton and chamois drawers, and tucked the cut edges into my boots. I wore the _kameez_ under my riding coat, and girded myself with as many weapons as I could carry. Around my neck I tied a warm shawl that could be drawn up over my head. My lighter clothes were packed in the duffel.

Jack whistled at the strange figure I presented. "All you need is a bit of dirt and grime an' you'll look a proper Tatar," he grinned.

At about four o'clock the winter sun was setting, and we were ready to depart. Jack remained with Maroto while Elizabeth and I directed her coach to Rosemary Lane. As soon as it drew up, Jack, Elizabeth, Maroto and I ran towards it through the alley and jumped in. The moment the door banged shut, we were off to Brighton at a very smart rate.

Just after crossing London Bridge, there came the noise of a heavy downpour pelting the coach. I peered out the window at a curtain of icy rain, through which I could dimly make out the wind-tossed branches of trees in the darkening night. I looked over at Elizabeth. "I'm in your debt. The roads must be awful by now. Without your coach we'd be having quite a time of it."

Jack instantly qualified my expression of thanks. "No need for modesty, Brat," he said, "You know we've come through worse." Then he fixed Elizabeth with a superior smile, and added, "In fact, we love bad weather. If you're followed, it's generally obvious, because no other traveler-"

He glanced out the back window and stopped talking. When he settled back into his seat, I could read the look in his eyes.

"How many?" I said.

"Just one. And don't go askin' me if it's an Englishman or a Spaniard." He drummed his fingers for a moment, then settled down to stare through the side window.

After a short time, his manner became cheery. "Half a mo'. Anyone hungry? Let's stop here." He thrust his head out the window and shouted for the coach to stop. As it drew to a halt, the outlines of a post house were visible through the downpour.

Elizabeth balked. "We've barely started! I'm not hungry."

"That's a sure sign that, in fact, you are hungry," Jack explained briskly, throwing open the door. He practically pushed us out, yet he remained behind, crouched down in the coach. As we crossed through the mud to the taproom, Elizabeth started to look back.

"Don't," I cautioned her. "He's up to something. Act as if we were the only passengers."

We sat at a table with Maroto between us, and ordered supper. Only one man came in after that – most certainly he was the horseman Jack had spied following us. He looked around and, appearing not to notice us, strode to the bar and ordered a bottle.

"That's the one?" asked Elizabeth, without turning.

I nodded my head. "I think so."

Twenty minutes later, I saw Jack weaving a path across the taproom with a thin leather cord in his hand, only to vanish about halfway across the room. _Like a bloody magician,_ I thought.

After a few moments, Maroto coughed and spoke to me in Spanish. "_Creo que tu amigo quiere que nos vayamos_." I looked up and saw Jack directing a meaningful stare at me. He tilted his head towards the door, and then quickly left the room.

"We're off," I said to Elizabeth. "Now!"

I feared that our pursuer would be upon us before we got out the door, but I needn't have worried. As we rushed out of the taproom, I heard a terrific crash, and glanced back to see an upturned table surrounded by angry patrons, and the mysterious man trying to free his boot from a thin leather cord.

As we set off in the coach once again, I thanked Jack. "But he won't be stopped for long. He'll catch us again."

"No harm in 'im trying, love," Jack grinned. "He should get well down the road before he loses his saddle. If the reins don't go first."

We made Brighton in nine hours, and the rain had cleared by the time we arrived. Jack took us into the Druid's Head, where we found Lazaro and Mr Gibbs. Several empty rum bottles on the table revealed how they had passed the time whilst awaiting our arrival.

We seated ourselves, save for Jack, who made ready to order more rum. He rubbed his palms together, and turned towards the bar, only to pivot back instantly. With a slight lurch, he grabbed the table's edge with both hands, his black-rimmed eyes wide with alarm.

"Time to weigh anchor, Mr Gibbs!" he snapped. "Step lively, all of you!"

He hurried us out of the taproom and into the longboat, even taking oars himself to ensure our departure was as swift as possible. Elizabeth and I exchanged puzzled looks, but no explanation was forthcoming.

Once on board, we locked Maroto in the brig and settled into our quarters. Jack strode about the _Pearl's_ deck calling orders, and the crew lost no time in setting her sails and heaving up anchor. At last, with the jib hoisted and the topsails sheeted properly, we set off with a fair, rattling breeze, bound for the Indies at last.

I stood on the deck for a long time, peering forward into the dark, as if my longing for Hector could somehow increase the speed of our ship. Then I fetched a bottle of rum from the captain's stores and made my way to Jack's quarters.

When I entered the day room, I found my brother engaged in poring over Sao Feng's maps. Elizabeth had already retired to her cabin, which left the way clear for a frank discussion with Jack.

After a few minutes, he looked up from the map. "Maddeningly unhelpful, still," he remarked.

"Perhaps it'll look better in the morning." I shrugged and poured some rum into his tankard. "Or there's a trick to working it. That's often the case." I watched as he tossed down the rum.

"You know, I don't think I've ever known you to leave a taproom without having a drink," I remarked with a smile. Our eyes met and I saw that he understood my unspoken question.

"You mean the Druid's Head," he replied. I was surprised to see how uncomfortable he looked.

"I don't suppose you noticed anyone there that looked . . . Seville-ish?" he ventured. "A . . . female Sevillian . . . of the opposite sex?"

A light dawned on me. "You thought you saw one of your damsels! How do you even remember them all?"

"Aye . . . and I don't," he said, answering both questions at once. "But . . . awkward circumstances, y'know . . ."

"And who made them awkward?" I laughed and shook my head. "Oh, Jack, this world is littered with the broken hearts you left behind. I wouldn't be in your shoes for anything."

"Just imagining things, I expect, then." He pulled something from his pocket and set a small gilded rosette on the table. "But this is most definitely not imaginary."

The rosette bore the royal cypher, surmounted by a crown. "From the bridle of our follower," Jack said. "A double bridle. You know what that means."

"The royal stables." I looked quickly at Jack. "I mean, at least the bridle comes from the royal mews."

He nodded. "And where did the horse and rider come from, I wonder. The king? Unlikely. Someone at court? Well . . . ."

I sat staring at the little rosette, and Jack leaned towards me. "If you want to know who a fugitive really is, darlin', find out who's hunting him. Someone's got their eye on your friend Maroto."

Jack's words kept me tossing and turning that night, and when I finally slept, I dreamed of Orion once again. Dawn found me pacing the deck. My prisoner, Jack's map, even my nightmare – all pressed me for answers, and I was beginning to be concerned for Jack's safety. Perhaps he, not Maroto, was being hunted.

At last, I resolved to leave unworldly matters to sort themselves; I would undertake to discover Maroto's story.

He looked a bit green when I arrived with his breakfast, and so I had him released and brought up to the main deck. For those who are unfortunate enough to suffer from sea-sickness, any location below deck will bring on their dreadful ailment. Poor Maroto could only lie upon the deck at first, but he gradually recovered enough to be coaxed into walking a bit, with one hand upon the rail.

This wouldn't do at all. I reproached myself for not being sufficiently attentive to my prisoner – who, after all, was only required to be transported and guarded, not punished by poor accommodations. I roused Jack, Mr Gibbs, and the_ Pearl's_ carpenter, Mr Cheesewright, and called a council in the captain's day room. By dint of moving one partition, adding another, and putting some of Jack's stores in a lazarette beneath his cabin, we created a tiny cabin for Maroto at deck-level with a door that could be locked. I promised to give him plenty of time to take the air on deck each day, but told him he would always be under guard. This seemed to improve matters, and, hoping to gain his trust, I made it a point to walk the deck with him whenever possible.

On these promenades, we chatted together in Spanish, and I gradually formed a good opinion of him. Maroto's ability to sympathise with those around him extended even to pirates, and his manner, while refined, was easy and unaffected. Half-joking, I asked him one morning if it did not trouble a priest to find himself in such dangerous and debauched company.

My question brought a gentle smile to his face. "But where do you think a priest should go?" he asked. "Wherever there are souls in darkness, there lies danger. And that is exactly where I must be. I am not needed where there is no danger."

The only topic upon which I could not draw him was his family. He spoke vaguely of being the son of a great captain who had made a fortune as a Spanish privateer, but beyond that he was elusive. I decided to practice my Spanish, hoping to improve my skills as a questioner. I began to spend time in my cabin, translating the little journal I had been given years ago by Edward Teague.

I had kept the note from my uncle tucked inside, "_For dear Nina, who loves the study of language. Practice makes perfect. From her loving Father._" How many changes had taken place since then! Feeling guilty that I had neglected it for so long, I opened the journal and began deciphering the faded ink.

_I have served the Royal Crown faithfully in these parts of the Indies, by order of the Catholic King, and now favours are to be given to me because of my present impoverished state._

I translated the date on the page_. Ten days of the month of February of one thousand five hundred and twenty-one years._ That explained everything - the writing, the peculiar style, and the misshapen, mildewed binding. Why had I been given it? To challenge my language skills? "Practice makes perfect" indeed, especially if I needed to converse with any two hundred year old Spaniards. I sighed and decided to trust my uncle, at least for the moment.

The first few pages were concerned with some secret accord between the writer and a noble who acted for King Ferdinand. There were many references to a Diego Colòn, who appeared to have been some sort of political adversary, and perhaps this was the reason for the secrecy. The writer was planning to take a small ship on a voyage to discover some tonic for the miserable health of the Spanish workers, so that the riches from the Indies could be produced quicker for Spain.

My eyelids had begun to droop. Reading this would be no easy task, and I hoped things would become livelier once the explorers set sail. I put the book aside and went in search of Jack.

"Find out who he is yet?" Jack asked the moment I entered the day room.

I dropped into a chair, utterly frustrated. "All I know is that he's damned determined not to be handed over to Spain. I can't understand why – he definitely appears to be Spanish."

"Perhaps he's a heretic," Jack suggested with a grin.

"Well, I did get one thing out of him. He said something about his ancestor committing a great wrong." I stared idly at the map on the table and waved my hand at it. "Still not working?"

"Seems neither one of us is getting anywhere, don' it?" He tipped a rum bottle over his tankard and two or three drops fell. "Hmmh. Tell you what – you have a look at the bloody map while I find Gibbs."

Alone with the map, I moved its layers round and round. The map did not resemble the ones by which we sailed – the land masses were all distorted and nearly unrecognizable. I looked up at the sound of the door and saw that Elizabeth had just entered the room.

"If you're looking for Jack, he's gone to find Mr Gibbs." I looked back at the map, expecting her to leave, but she stared at the table and came closer.

"Sao Feng's map! I might have known," she said. "Has he discovered how it works?"

"Apparently, it doesn't," I replied. "But Jack thinks it leads to the Fountain of Youth."

"It leads many places," she said very seriously. "I'm not sure even Sao Feng himself knew all of them. But you can't just use it like a regular map."

I moved the circles around again. "So I see."

"No, I mean there's more than the map at work," Elizabeth explained. "Somehow it uses things like fate and chance. It hides and reveals things according to your destiny."

"So if you're not meant to get to the Fountain, it won't lead you there?" I sat back. "There's no use my trying to read it then. Have you made a study of these things? Magic and all?"

"No. I was thrown into it when Barbossa came after the medallion," she said. "Everything I've learnt came after that."

Perhaps she knew something about dreams. That would resolve at least one worry for me. "Can you tell the meaning of dreams? I've had the same troublesome dream about a constellation for years. Am I supposed to sail by those stars or something?"

"I couldn't say. What constellation is it?" she asked.

"Orion."

"Well, that certainly makes sense, given your close ties to the sea."

I looked at her blankly.

"But don't you remember?" she asked, surprised. "Orion was the son of Poseidon."

* * *

**Next:** Maroto begins to give up his secrets, and the _Pearl_ reaches Tortuga.


End file.
